


Weekend at Wilvercombe

by Delancey654



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delancey654/pseuds/Delancey654
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dowager Duchess indulges her curiosity and engages in a spot of detection. Set during the events of Have His Carcase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thursday, 18 June 1931-evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nmarlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nmarlow/gifts).



Lord Peter Wimsey admired his claret - Chateau Margaux 1893 was a most pleasant vintage, with a beautiful color - and allowed his mother's voice to wash over him like a burbling brook. 

"Bunter truly is a marvel, Peter dear. He is not French, not even a teensy little bit like you, but his Hollandaise would make Cordelia's chef - Jean Michael who, as you know, was at the George Cinq before Vanderbilt offered thousands to lure him away - positively gnash his teeth in Gallic envy. So lemony, so silky! Can a sauce be silky, I wonder, or is that an adjective one should reserve for cloth? For years, I ate my asparagus with nothing more than a dash of salt, but Bunter has made me a convert, just like your amusing friend with the harmonium, Mr. Rumm. I hope that conversion to a food rather than religion isn't blasphemous, but the Bible does say quite a bit about milk and honey and fatted calves and roasted lamb. And his lamb chops! Bunter's, I mean, not Mr. Rumm's. I do feel so terribly guilty when I see them gamboling in the fields in 'softest clothing woolly bright,' not at all like sheep that just stand about with a blank expression, but mutton simply cannot compare to lamb."

The Dowager Duchess paused for breath and to take a small bite of the sacrificial lamb. 

Peter took advantage of the lull to interpose a rather delicate question. "I say, Mother, will you be joining Gherkins, Winnie, and their progenitors at Duke's Denver later this month?" 

Wimsey had the faint hope, ephemeral as soap bubbles, that clever phrasing focused on her beloved grandchildren might sooth the Dowager's feathers. Those metaphorical feathers (though his mother always put him in mind of a bright-eyed robin) had been ruffled more than usual by her overbearing daughter-in-law, precipitating a domestic crisis.

Traditionally, the ducal Wimseys left their London townhome in July for the seaside. This year, Helen had made a unilateral decision to return to Norfolk for six weeks beginning in mid-June, allowing her to personally oversee much-needed repairs to the old ancestral pile, as Peter liked to call it. That decision - made by the current Duchess with characteristic disregard for anyone else's comfort or convenience - was greeted with universal disapprobation by her husband and children. In Honoria's case, it had not merely roused complaint, but incited outright rebellion. 

Gerald, Helen, and Winifred had been chauffeured from London three days ago in a Daimler laundalet (a sedate cousin of Mrs. Merdle) en route to Duke's Denver, with a brief stop in Eton to reclaim Jerry and provide that venerable institution with a brief respite from the viscount's mischief. The Dowager Duchess had resolutely stayed in London. 

When Helen insisted on closing up the Wimsey's London residence for vague reasons of economy (in reality, an effort to maneuver her mother-in-law into compliance), Honoria had removed herself and her personal maid, Saunders, to Claridge's. 

Although the doings of elderly widows generally were not of interest to the likes of Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke, Helen was nevertheless afraid that this turn of events might find its way into the gossip columns and mar the veneer of irreproachable perfection she liked to project. The younger Duchess accordingly prevailed upon her husband to seek his brother's intercession. Hence, Lord Peter's artfully phrased inquiry. 

After taking a fortifying sip of wine, his mother responded with an unusual tartness and brevity that reminded him that while peacemakers might be blest in the beatitudes, they were generally damned in person. "I shan't be going to Duke's Denver this summer. I shall be visiting my brother in Cannes instead."

A man with less savoir-faire would have spluttered into his claret. Wimsey, to his credit, merely said something fatuous. "Uncle Paul, eh?"

"Clearly, as I have only the one brother." His mother pinned him with a stare that was raptorial rather than robin-like.

Wimsey, recovering admirably from the shock administered by the Dowager, managed a slightly more intelligent question. "So you'll be spending the summer on the Riviera, then?"

Once more, his mother's glare reminded him of a fiercer type of hawk. "Do try to keep up, Peter dear. I've already stated I would be going to Cannes rather than Duke's Denver. You've always been quick on the uptake and quite a good listener, unlike poor Gerald who takes after your father, and I should hate to think that you were lapsing in either respect."

The Dowager Duchess's expression softened as she gazed upon her suitably chastened offspring and replied to his unspoken question. "I believe I shall enjoy myself very much, dearest. Your Uncle Paul is a gracious host." 

His mother brightened perceptibly. "Besides, he has promised to take me to Monte Carlo! I shall adore going to the Casino and watching the American millionaires rub shoulders with the White Russians, as they claim to be serene highnesses and grand dukes when they probably drove lorries or worked in factories. The Russians, I mean, not the Americans. If the Americans started in a factory, they will certainly tell you so, like Mr. Carnegie. Why are the Russians called 'white,' I wonder? It's not as though the Bolsheviks are called 'black,' as if their revolution was a chess match, in fact they are Reds, though I suppose one could argue their hearts and souls are black, at least if the Daily Express is to be believed, and they do have a point, with how they murdered poor dear Sunny and all her children with her, including the sickly little Tsarevich who was only thirteen, and they needn't have shot him at all, since I doubt he would have lived much longer when even a skinned knee and a bump on the head could have killed him like the old Duke of Albany, who was so kind to Paul when he arrived in Cannes."

Reassured by this return to normalcy, as his mother's conversation came full circle, Wimsey's third question approached something close to coherency. "Shall I have Bunter clear and bring in the trifle?"

Before his mother could assent eagerly - for Bunter's trifle in June was a marvel to behold, with fresh strawberries studded like rubies among the custard and cream - Bunter himself entered the dining room. The faintest hint of concern present on his manservant's wooden features forestalled Lord Peter from making any quip about the appearance of devils or the unlikelihood that Bunter would be so gauche as to be caught eavesdropping at a door. 

"You have a phone call, my lord. From Mr. Hardy of the Morning Star. I advised him that you were at dinner, but he impressed upon me the urgency of speaking with your lordship before this evening's print deadline. It is a matter concerning Miss Vane."

It would be an exaggeration, but only just, to say that Lord Peter sprang from his chair like a jack-in-the-box in removing himself to the 'phone. 

After suitable greetings were exchanged, Salcombe Hardy came straight to the point. "I say, Wimsey, that Vane woman of yours has got herself mixed up in another queer story."

Lord Peter disabused the tipsy reporter of the flattering but false notion that he had any claim to possession of Miss Vane, heard details of the "queer story" with increasing misgivings, and quickly rang off. He returned to the dining room only to make his excuses.

"Beg your pardon, Mater, but I must toddle off to the Morning Star and make a personal appeal to old Sally before he perpetrates a libel against Harriet, I mean Miss Vane. She found a Russian hotel dancer on the beach near Wilvercombe with his throat slit and the Morning Star intends to pillory her based on the circumstances."

With that, Peter was gone, leaving his mother in sole possession of the trifle. The Dowager Duchess thoughtfully chased a strawberry round and round with her dessert fork, murmuring to herself. "Such an interesting face when I saw her in the dock. Her personality must be a match to have kept Peter intrigued all these months since her acquittal. I should very much like to meet Miss Vane . . .


	2. Friday, 19 June 1931 - late morning

The Dowager Duchess of Denver was enjoying an atypically late breakfast in bed in her suite, with bites of scrambled eggs and buttered toast interspersed with cheerful commentary to her maid about the morning's news. 

Saunders, who was busy tidying the suite and laying out her Grace's dress, also managed to attend to her employer's conversation.

The Dowager attributed this admirable faculty to focus upon multiple tasks at once to modern education. She agreed absently with her maid's suggestion that a coalition government was likely by the end of the summer, her busy mind having flitted from affairs of state to a notion that had increasingly occupied her thoughts since yesterday evening. The morning paper, with its headlines screaming about the "Mystery at Wilvercombe," only reinforced the idea that had taken root and was now growing with the enthusiasm of kudzu. 

The Duchess began musing to herself. "They say curiosity killed the cat, but Artaxerxes Longimanus lived to be eighteen . . . it would only be for a day or so . . . London is rather thin of company just now . . . nothing interesting at the theatre, or at least nothing I haven't already seen . . . is it incognito or incognita? Grammatically, it must be the latter - but one only ever hears the former, at least in this way. Perhaps only men go 'undercover,' as the Americans say, to detect? No, think of dear Miss Climpson, who provided such valuable service to Peter pretending to be a medium. Not that I would be detecting . . . ." 

The Duchess reached a decision, having been persuaded by Miss Climpson's shining example. Now, only the practicalities remained to be dealt with. 

Briefly, she outlined the situation to her maid, and was pleased by the alacrity with which Saunders entered into the scheme. 

"Yes, of course, your Grace!" The enthusiasm in the monosyllables confirmed Honoria's suspicion that Saunders, deep in her narrow and probably Labourite bosom, harbored a long-standing envy for Bunter's many adventures with Lord Peter and was eager to embark on even this minor reconnaissance with her mistress.


	3. Friday, 19 June 1931-evening

Telegram from Lord Peter Wimsey to Miss Harriet Vane:

FOLLOWING RAZOR CLUE TO STAMFORD REFUSE RESEMBLE THRILLER HERO WHO HANGS ROUND HEROINE TO NEGLECT OF DUTY BUT WILL YOU MARRY ME--PETER

Telegram from Miss Harriet Vane to Lord Peter Wimsey:

GOOD HUNTING CERTAINLY NOT SOME DEVELOPMENTS HERE--VANE

***

At his flat in Piccadilly, Wimsey skimmed over the just-arrived yellow telegram, eyes returning twice, and then three times, to the emphatic adverb. With a wry twist of his mouth, he thought a simple "no" would have sufficed, given the truncated form of communication.

Distraction was in order, and he could think of nothing better than a night at the theatre - surely there was something comic on the boards in Drury Lane - and his mother's bright affection would be a balm for the sting of rejection. 

However, when he rang Claridge's, the desk clerk advised Lord Peter that the Dowager Duchess had departed early that afternoon, leaving the address of Paul Delagardie's villa for any forwarding communications. 

Wimsey was certain his mother was holding reservations on Monday's Blue Train, and had planned to leave London on Sunday, but, as he murmured to himself, "varium et mutabile semper femina." Except for Harriet, who was constant in her refusal. 

To banish any hint of self-pity, Wimsey decided to remove himself to his club. As men had recognized since at least since the founding White's, there was something innately soothing about leather armchairs, strong liquor, and the bachelor company of men.

***

At the Resplendent Hotel's dance lounge, a pair of bright, inquiring eyes stared through the fronds of a conveniently-placed potted palm, watching couples sway, step, swirl or stomp around the floor, in accordance with their talent and temperament. 

Honoria's attention sharpened as a tall, dark-haired woman in a red dress came into the ballroom. Harriett Vane was not beautiful, or even pretty, she decided, but the younger woman's face had character, her eyes had intelligence, and she carried herself with an oddly defiant sort of dignity. The Dowager Duchess easily could understand why her son was attracted. Her approval was superfluous, but she nonetheless approved. 

From Honoria's vantage point, she observed Peter's Miss Vane (so the Duchess thought of her, showing a communion of the minds with Salcombe Hardy that would have shocked the pickled newsman) approach the blond male dancer employed by the hotel. 

Situated as she was behind the palm, the Dowager could not hear the words exchanged, but she recognized the expression on the younger woman's face. A lesser woman (like the stout, tightly corseted matron incongruously dressed in girlish gauze, who was glaring daggers at Harriet) might have made the mistake of thinking Miss Vane's interest in the gigolo was amorous, but Honoria knew better. She had seen the same intent eyes and alert posture innumerable times since Peter's nursery days, whenever he was in pursuit of a clue. 

"Like Diana the huntress," the Dowager murmured to herself. Perhaps the Morning Star had injected a grain of accuracy amongst its sensationalism for once, and there was more to the death of this Paul Alexis than a simple, sordid suicide. 

The Duchess softly hummed along with the orchestra, her eyes following a dark-haired woman waltzing ever so correctly with the wrong fair-haired man. She resolved to speak with Miss Vane tomorrow, and, having reached that happy decision, took herself off to bed so that her little life could be rounded with a sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The telegrams are quoted directly from Have His Carcase. The Latin quote is attributed to Virgil. The Duchess's thoughts on sleep are paraphrasing The Tempest.


	4. Saturday, 19 June 1931-afternoon

Harriet Vane, having lunched just off the esplanade, sat sipping a coffee with the sun on her face and the wind ruffling her hair. Her state of contentment was enhanced by sight of the older lady at the next table. From her neatly-dressed white hair to her sensible heels, she was the perfect antidote to the "predatory hags" like Mrs. Weldon who haunted watering holes like Wilvercombe. 

Idly, Harriet wondered what had brought the old dear to the Resplendent. There was something indefinable - in the cut of her linen suit, in the tilt of her head - that placed her a cut above the usual widows and maiden ladies who typically patronized the hotel. Perhaps it was ill-health; Harriet had seen a uniformed nurse tenderly deposit the elderly woman at the breakfast table not a half hour before, and had noted the oddity of the nurse's affectionate deference instead of the usual brisk and artificial cheer that was the hallmark of the profession. 

With a twinkling smile, the older woman caught Harriet's eye and gestured for her to come over. With a faintly abashed smile at having been caught staring, Harriet picked up her coffee cup and accepted the unspoken invitation. 

The woman waved aside her introduction. "No need, Miss Vane. I very much enjoy your detective stories and you do look exactly like your photograph on the dust jacket of Murder by Degrees."

Harriet inwardly grimaced, regretting the momentary impulse that had led her to abandon the best society of solitude. This sort of comment inevitably led to gushing of the most embarrassing sort or, worse yet, a viva voce of her plots that left Harriet feeling prickly and defensive.

While Harriet braced herself for the worst, the older lady veered the conversation in an unexpected direction. "It must be so trying for you, my dear, having to write about Robert Templeton over and again until he becomes nothing more than a bundle of mannerisms, despite your best efforts to keep him from becoming a caricature of himself. I expect you would like to murder him ingeniously in one of your novels, though I suppose publishers will never allow it. So tiresome of them, always refusing to clear out the old to make way for the new."

Harriet blinked at her companion's unexpected insight. Just this morning, she had been fantasizing about the different ways in which the villain of The Fountain Pen Mystery could dispatch her annoyingly rumpled protagonist. But, like Victor Frankenstein, Harriet knew she would never be able to destroy the creature she had loosed upon the world (or her reading public).

She laughed suddenly, a clear, bell-like sound. "How right you are!"

Making a sudden decision, Harriet signaled the waiter to bring fresh coffee and tea. With Wimsey absent in pursuit of the razor clue, she was sorely in need of some perspective, and the white-haired lady promised to provide one that was refreshingly unique. 

She turned to her with an inquiring look. "May I ask your name?"

"Mrs. Lucasta, but you must call me Hope."

Honoria was rather proud of the pseudonym. Her middle name readily adapted itself to use as a surname, but she and Saunders had struggled mightily to find a Christian name that comported with the monogrammed "H" that adorned the Duchess's luggage. Harriet was already claimed, Helen was tantamount to a declaration of war, and numerous other options - Helga, Hildegarde, Hulda - were too Teutonic for her taste. 

"Not that I am holding a grudge from the War, like those silly people who insist on calling a frankfurter a hot dog," she had told her maid, "but those names simply do not fit."

Saunders had gravely agreed that no one could mistake her mistress for a Hun and offered Hope. 

After thoughtfully rolling the name around her tongue, the Dowager accepted the suggestion. It was a pretty name and one, moreover, that fit the persona of a widow who would weekend at a spot like Wilvercombe. While honor might be an archaic ideal extolled by families like the Delagardies and Wimseys in naming their offspring, faith, hope and charity were solidly middle-class values. 

Given the effort that she and Saunders had expended, the Duchess was suitably pleased when Miss Vane complimented the name. She was even more gratified when Miss Vane, over steaming hot coffee, black, one sugar (Harriet) and tea, Darjeeling, with milk only (Honoria), outlined the circumstances surrounding the discovery of Paul-Alexis's corpse. 

The Duchess unerringly put her finger on the same aspects of the tragedy that had troubled persons as diverse as her son, Miss Vane, a provincial police inspector, and an assortment of hotel dancers. "Why would he walk all that way, on such a hot day and wearing patent leather shoes, in order to cut his own throat? The poor boy could have killed himself much more comfortably in his own room."

Honoria's mind then seized on another aspect of the case with the tenacity and enthusiasm of a terrier pup. "That unobtrusive Mr. Perkins," she exclaimed, "what was he doing walking along that deserted stretch of road?" 

She waved away Harriet's attempted explanation. "I know he told you he was hiking, but I don't believe that for a moment. If he had been, he shouldn't have gotten a blister walking that short little distance with you."

Harriet cupped her chin in her hand and stared thoughtfully at the sun reflecting off the choppy surface of the water. "That is strange," she said slowly, "And he certainly made himself scarce once I 'phoned the police."

"If it were one of your books, my dear, Perkins would be the murderer, and you know what they say about life imitating art. Or is it art imitating life? I suppose it comes down to whether one prefers Aristotle to Mr. Wilde, which is a rather neat way of dividing the world, now that I come to think of it."

With an amused smile, Harriet disclaimed any desire to involve herself in this philosophical dispute. "As for Perkins, I'll mention him again to Inspector Umpelty and see if the police can't trace him."

She politely inquired about Mrs. Lucasta's stay at the Resplendent, and was disappointed to find that Hope ("please, dear, call me Hope - I can't abide stuffy titles") would be leaving that very afternoon. 

Mrs. Lucasta's pending departure (as well as an edge of desperation, due to the deadlines imposed by the owner of the serial rights) led Harriet to break one of her cardinal rules and solicit a reader's advice on a story in progress. 

As it transpired, Mrs. Lucasta had visited Edinburgh on several occasions, and was able to provide valuable information on the matter of the town clock. Regretfully, she did not believe either of the prominent clocks at Canongate Tollbooth or the N.B. hotel could realistically be susceptible to tampering. She suggested use of the Tollcross clock instead, given its location at a busy tram stop and the possibility of using a crank handle at the base to alter the time. 

Harriet took careful notes, as this intelligence opened up several promising avenues to solve the vexing problem of the town clock alibi. Having reasonably discharged her duty to her publisher, Harriet enjoyed the conversation's meandering from Edinburgh's landmarks, to Robert Burns, and then to Walter Scott. 

Looking at her wristwatch, Harriet was surprised to see how much time had elapsed. A respectful shadow fell over the table, and the nurse reminded her patient of the need to depart. Once more, Harriet was struck by the incongruity of a nurse with the demeanor of a female Bunter. Perhaps Mrs. Lucasta's nurse had begun in service and then trained as a nurse during the War. 

This speculation was driven from Harriet's mind as Mrs. Lucasta unexpectedly captured her in a warm embrace and whispered in her ear. "Those silly men who re-tell the story of Penelophon and her king neglect to mention how miserable and lonely he was, despite all his wealth. He needed her at least as much as she needed him." With a kiss on her cheek, the older woman bade her a fond farewell. 

Harriet was left alone at her table, pondering why Hope had taken it for granted that they would meet again and what, precisely, had led her to bring up King Cophetua and his blasted beggar maid.


	5. Wednesday, 8 July 1931-evening

With Miss Merdle having made quick work of the distance between Wilvercombe and London, Wimsey and Harriet Vane were presently ensconced in a comfortable corner table at one of their favorite restaurants. The bistro had better than decent food and discreet service; moreover, it straddled neutral ground between aristocratic Piccadilly and the more bohemian environs of Soho. They had dined there several times since Harriet's acquittal; often enough to be greeted with nods and led promptly to their usual table. 

"Umpelty sent me a telegram," Wimsey announced, once the appetizers had been cleared. "He persuaded the Superintendent to take the case before the coroner."

Harriet was pleased, but not especially surprised. "He's a good Inspector - I thought he would do the right thing, even though it won't be easy to prove."

She reconsidered, dark eyes crinkling with amusement. "Perhaps it will be easier to convince a jury than we think. It has the sort of sensationalism that readers of the Daily Message revel in."

Wimsey favored her with a slightly sardonic smile. "Gently, dearest. Those self-same readers provide your daily bread - or turbot aux buerre blanc, as the case may be."

Harriet abruptly changed the subject, relieved that she had gotten enough sun during her walking tour to conceal her flushed cheeks from the unexpected endearment. "How is it that you discovered Paul Alexis was a haemophiliac? You mentioned it was something I said about blood, but I don't recall saying anything particularly illuminating."

Wimsey was pleased to elucidate. "It wasn't any one thing you said, but more so that it was uncharacteristic for you to go on about blood like a modern-day Lady Macbeth. My mother also said something about the Tsarevich the night I motored to Wilvercombe. You haven't yet met my mother, but her conversation is like Magellan circumnavigating the globe - it meanders terribly and takes much longer than it should but ultimately yields immense value."

"I know exactly what you mean! I had a similar old tabby cast suspicion on Perkins, and her instincts were spot-on. I even wrote my publisher about the possibility of replacing Robert Templeton with a little white-haired lady of a detective, but he said it had already been done in Murder at the Vicarage and he didn't wish to risk an infringement lawsuit."

Peter made appropriately sympathetic noises, until Harriet added, "Mrs. Lucasta was such a charming lady. I wish she had still been staying at the Resplendent when you returned. You would have liked her very much." At that point, he stilled and quivered slightly, reminding Harriet of a pointer who had spied a bevy of birds.

"Lucasta, you say?" Wimsey's voice was quiet and unusually colorless, leaving Harriet guessing as to whether the quivering was suppressed laughter or anger. "Was her Christian name Honoria, perchance?"

"She said it was Hope," Harriet replied, recognizing the name and with dawning comprehension, "but it was your mother. She seemed so familiar - now I realize she was sitting next to you my trial."

Wimsey was momentarily diverted. "You noticed me in the gallery?"

"How could I not, with the lights gleaming off your hair and glinting off that famous monocle?" Harriet's reply was light but still gratifying. 

Wimsey's brief smile faded into an unwontedly serious expression. He played the fool so well, and to such devastating effect, that Harriet - who knew better - had almost convinced herself there was nothing beneath the protective, superficial gloss. 

"I owe you an apology for my mother's antics. On this occasion, I fear she took our family motto to heart and let her whimsy take her too far."

Harriet decided to nip this unusual humility in the bud. "Nonsense," she said crisply, "Neither you nor you mother owe me anything of the sort. If anything, she provided valuable assistance with my plot." She said nothing of the Dowager's parting comment and the new light it shed on the man sitting across from her.

Peter gave her a crooked smile. "In that case, I shall offer a toast to meddlesome mothers-in-law and use that as a segue into my customary mid-week proposal. Dearest Harriet, will you marry me?"

Harriet laughed but shook her head as she clinked her glass against his. "No, but we can drink to hope."

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Salcombe Hardy's statement is a direct quote from Have His Carcase.


End file.
